


P.S. I Love You

by amine



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Love Confessions, Love Letters, M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-05
Updated: 2017-09-05
Packaged: 2018-12-24 02:07:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12002691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amine/pseuds/amine
Summary: "I am not quite certain why I am writing this letter to you, when it's almost certain that you won't read it because it's not by email or text message, but an old fountain pen I once used in great frequency still had some ink, and I still had a bit of parchment left, so I am writing this letter to you."





	1. England

**Author's Note:**

> Might as well post the other "love letters" fic I wrote. ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ

My dear America,

I am not quite certain why I am writing this letter to you, when it's almost certain that you won't read it because it's not by email or text message, but an old fountain pen I once used in great frequency still had some ink, and I still had a bit of parchment left, so I am writing this letter to you.

You are infuriating. An insufferable, boorish clod, and you don't even realise the truth. You carry on like the oblivious fool that you are without any regard for the feelings of others, most especially not mine, I am quite certain.

Yet I still find myself loving you so desperately that I can hardly bear it.

There, I've said it. I love you. I am in love with you. “I cannot sum up sum of half my wealth.”

Oh, but you might not appreciate Shakespeare's words, though I can easily picture that lovely, smooth brow of yours wrinkling as you read them. Perhaps the Beatles? I still fondly remember how excited you were when you first heard their music, and how you begged me to send you autographed copies of their albums.

“I want you. I want you so bad it's driving me mad.”

Simple and succinct. I do want you. All of you, because you shine so brilliantly at times that any and all of your misgivings can be forgiven without thought. All you have to do is smile and my heart pounds and I have to avert my face before you can see how red it is.

Sometimes when you are near me, I try to focus on your cheap suits and how I want to straighten your crooked tie, but whatever fragrance you wear is anything but cheap, and the smell of you combined with your close proximity makes me so dizzy that I can hardly think straight.

I often laugh at the foolish sentimentality of youth, and yet here I am writing you a love letter expressing my feelings for you.

Would it trouble you to know that I've had these feelings for centuries? I believe it started when you decided to declare your independence, when I had to accept that the sweet boy I had met in a field had grown into a fine young man. It was quite cruel of my heart to do that to me, when I lost you shortly after.

Or perhaps you would feel smug knowing that you've had my heart in your hands this entire time. It's much easier for me to imagine you deriding me for my feelings than it is to imagine you accepting them. I know that there is no point in me even attempting to dream of you reciprocating them, though I have no control over my thoughts as I sleep. I have grown used to waking to find that my lovely dream was indeed just a dream, and that you are still an ocean away thinking very little of me.

I am carrying on too long, so I will leave it here. Please permit this “boring old man” to ease this weight off of his chest.

I do love you so, America. Deeply and dearly.

Yours always,

England


	2. America

Hey England,

Of course you'd pick snail mail to tell me these things. I can just imagine you sitting at your desk in your high back chair and sipping a cup of tea while you composed the letter by candlelight. And you were probably listening to monk chants that are almost as old as you are.

I wanted to write you a response, but this is actually really hard. I'm sorry I never noticed, though. Or maybe I was afraid to. I didn't know it went on that long, though. It wasn't as long for me, but it's been a long time. You remember World War I? Of course you do. Anyway, we were forced to work together again, and even though I was supposed to still be maintaining isolationist policies, I was happy to see you again.

Turns out I wound up more than a little happy to see you.

I probably should have said something then, but I was afraid you hated me after everything that had happened.

I don't really know why I feel this way. You're always nagging me, calling me an idiot and shooting down my amazing ideas. Your eyebrows are huge and your cooking sucks, and you're always talking to your imaginary friends.

But I can't really help it. I know that, more than anyone else, I can always depend on you to be there. I can count on you to be honest and to keep me in line, but to still make me feel pretty awesome anyway. And somehow, that stupid accent of yours is...

This really is hard.

I guess I could go on about warm summer days, birds suddenly appearing, music playing and how I wish you'd smile more because no one else in the world has a smile like yours, but I know it would sound stupid and you'd call me out on my BS if I tried.

I think it would be easier if it was in person. Then I could slip my hand into yours, and you'd sputter and protest and be all English about it, but now I know that you'd really be happy. Then I could lean down and whisper in your ear, “say the words you long to hear”. And then we could both smile and we could both be happy, because there's nothing wrong with wanting to be happy.

We're both kind of idiots, aren't we? This could have been settled a long time ago if one of us had said something.

So, thanks for sending the letter. Even if it was stuffy and by snail mail. It made me really happy.

Hey England, let's meet up sometime. I want to see if your hand really fits as well in mine as I think it does. I'm sure it does. I'm never wrong about things that really matter (and I know you're probably snorting while reading that, but you know it's true). I promise I won't laugh too much if you do that sputtering English thing when I try.

Later,

America

“P.S. I love you. You you you.”

See? I can quote the Beatles, too.


End file.
